The times they are a’changing

Something nasty in the woodshed

The Blok is changing. It is changing rapidly, and it is changing for the worse.

The atmosphere out on the street has plummeted over recent weeks. Growing numbers of increasingly aggressive child beggars, a sinister late-night police presence, a dramatic increase in the number of rust-bucket taxis and their pushy touts – these are the outward manifestations of the rot.

Many of the regular girls are being driven away because they’re afraid of the background police presence and sporadic raids which seem to focus on My Bar. Their place is being taken by plain, humourless, characterless outsiders who seem to work regular shifts. The girls are the bars, and it’s the regulars who give the places their character and their spirit. If the regular girls go, they’ll be followed by many of the regular customers.

Unsavoury characters lurk both on the street and in My Bar. Some nights I leave early because I just don’t like the look of the company, and an increasing number of regulars are doing the same.

I don’t know what was behind the late opening of One Tree, but it’s common knowledge that the original business arrangement folded.

I don’t know what the problem is with My Bar, but the sudden closure of the upstairs bar and billiard saloon followed by a swingeing reduction in the staff bespeaks serious happenings behind the scenes.

The bar owners and managers no longer pass on to me tidbits of gossip and management chit-chat as they used to – for what reasons, I don’t know. FAB, the Falatehan Association of Businesses, seems to have stalled since its pool league success, and there’s no sign of any more joint initiatives. Why, I don’t know.

Reading between the lines I’ve come to the conclusion that there may be bad blood between some of the FAB fraternity, and that all is not sweetness and light. Now I don’t give a toss about rivalries and squabbles that go on behind the scenes, but I am concerned when they spill over into our revelling and nasty things begin to happen. In the present jittery mood of Jakarta security, the last thing that Jalan Falatehan needs is a bad name for looking after its own.

One Tree gets some bottle

Having missed what was lauded as a very festive and successful Grand Opening of One Tree, I do manage to haul myself along to their wine and cheese evening – and what a pleasant, civilized occasion it is. There are a couple of red and a couple of white wines to sample and enjoy, plus a well-spread table of cheeses, bread and crackers to wash down with a copious flow of vino. The company is convivial and everyone’s in a mellow, relaxed mood – a welcome counterpoint to the more raucous pleasures to be enjoyed further up the street.

After more glasses of an eminently drinkable Merlot than I care to count, I get chatting to Bart who is now One Tree’s Big Cheese. It’s interesting to hear his views on the street, as he’s the newest kid on the Blok and doesn’t yet see things through rose-tinted beer glasses (a common management failing in some of the other local hostelries). His first observation is that the touts, taxis and tots really must go, as they’re a great nuisance and doing serious harm to the reputation of the street. “Hallelujah!” I cry, he’s got it in one. But will others listen? Will anything be done? I somehow doubt it very much. Some of the owners have the short-term memory span of an amnesiac goldfish, and no matter how often this is dinned into them nothing ever gets done.

On a happier note, Bart assures me that the menu is being overhauled and the pricing reviewed, so we may expect a major improvement very soon. I tell him that I’ll be first at the trough when it’s ready, as long as there’s real food at realistic prices. So all in all, a late and rather muted grand opening for One Tree, but the auguries are auspicious for it to find its niche on the Blok – especially if certain other places can’t get their act together and provide a sociable early evening venue for guys to chat and enjoy a plate of good tucker.

My(opic) Bar

Now I’ve always been a great fan of My Bar and supported it from the beginning. It not only filled the void created by the tragic demise of Lintas Melawai, but brought a new experience to the Street and attracted a brilliant pantheon of Sweet Young Things to Blok M. But woe and alas, I’m slowly being turned off the place. Because, in the words of the old song, “fings ain’t wot they used to be”.

My Bar’s increasingly idiosyncratic taste in recorded music – and its crass miscalculation that the punters actually like this stuff – continues to ruin the ambience, and more of the guys are being turned off and driven out by the deafening volume. To be fair, when the boss is present things are pretty well under control – but as soon as he’s gone, the DJs stubbornly revert to their choice of ‘music’ and ramp up the volume as far as it’ll go.

The growing – and now very noticeable – shortage of premium-quality Sweet Young Things is having its inevitable effect on the customers. On the last few occasions I’ve been in the bar I’ve noticed guys walk in, look round, shrug their shoulders and walk out again to see if things are any better in D’s Place or Top Gun. One night I actually heard someone say to his mate “Let’s give the Club a try”. A more damning indictment of the state of the Falatehan bars and discos is impossible to imagine.

The dance floor is hardly used until late at night, because of the layout – I’ve told the management time and again that the girls like a central raised platform to dance on and around, but they don’t listen. And when they have live music, the bands take up the whole disco dance floor – a nice shot-in-the-foot, because then there’s nowhere for the girls to dance.

But more unpleasant is the sinister and unsavoury-looking characters who hang about the bar late at night. Whether or not they present an actual threat or danger isn’t the issue – it’s the effect they have on the atmosphere of the place. It’s remarked by some of the regulars that these guys bear a nasty resemblance to members of the West African mafia that deals in drugs and fake passports. Whether they are or they aren’t such types is, again, not the issue – the perception is that they might be, and that’s really turning off some of the regular punters.

My message, and it’s echoed by a lot of the regular customers, is for My Bar to get its act together before it’s too late.